‘Political?’

‘No.  Something to do with literature.’

Ackroyd broke into another laugh—­louder this time, and contemptuous.

‘Sops to the dog that’s beginning to show his teeth!’ he exclaimed.  ’It shows you what’s coming.  The capitalists are beginning to look about and ask what they can do to keep the people quiet.  Lectures on literature!  Fools!  As if that wasn’t just the way to remind us of what we’ve missed in the way of education.  It’s the best joke you could hit on.  Let him lecture away; he’ll do more than he thinks.’

‘Where does he give them?’ Grail inquired.

’He hasn’t begun yet.  Bower seems to be going round to get men to hear him.  Do you think you’d like to go?’

‘It depends what sort of a man he is.’

‘A conceited young fool, I expect.’

Grail smiled.

In such conversation they passed the Archbishop’s Palace; then, from the foot of Lambeth Bridge, turned into a district of small houses and multifarious workshops.  Presently they entered Paradise Street.

The name is less descriptive than it might be.  Poor dwellings, mean and cheerless, are interspersed with factories and one or two small shops; a public-house is prominent, and a railway arch breaks the perspective of the thoroughfare midway.  The street at that time—­in the year ’80—­began by the side of a graveyard, no longer used, and associated in the minds of those who dwelt around it with numberless burials in a dire season of cholera.  The space has since been converted into a flower-garden, open to the children of the neighbourhood, and in summer time the bright flower-beds enhance the ignoble baldness of the by-way.

When they had nearly reached the railway arch Ackroyd stopped.

‘I’m just going in to Bower’s shop,’ he said; ’I’ve got a message for poor old Boddy.’

‘Boddy?’

‘You know of him from the Trent girls, don’t you?’

‘Yes, yes,’ Grail answered, nodding.  He seemed about to add something, but checked himself, and, with a ‘good-bye,’ went his way.

Ackroyd turned his steps to a little shop close by.  It was of the kind known as the ‘small general’; over the door stood the name of the proprietor—­’Bower’—­and on the woodwork along the top of the windows was painted in characters of faded red:  ’The Little Shop with the Large Heart.’  Little it certainly was, and large of heart if the term could be made to signify an abundant stock.  The interior was so packed with an indescribable variety of merchandise that there was scarcely space for more than two customers between door and counter.  From an inner room came the sound of a violin, playing a lively air.